Adjustments
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: Getting used to life with red tape isn't easy for the Black Widow. Sequel to Opportunities.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer—Recognizable characters belong to Marvel… No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—I was just gonna write a little something to cheer up my friend Cindy after a long day… and then it turned into this! This monstrosity! And then I decided to share it with y'all, too. Aren't you lucky? :) Thanks, Cindy Ryan, for the beta. :)

Adjustments—Getting used to life with red tape isn't easy for Natasha. Sequel to Opportunities.

* * *

The gym was normally vacant after nine o'clock at night. Most agents were long since home, resting or trying to. It was Natasha Romanoff's favorite time to be there. Taking out the day's frustration on the heavy bags in the corner seemed far more productive than any other method of stress relief.

It had been three months since Budapest. The first four weeks, she'd gone through extensive testing of her skills and abilities, both mentally and physically. They'd gone so far as to test her loyalty. Considering hers had always been available to the highest bidder, she felt that hoop to jump through was set unfairly high.

She was just supposed to fall on her knees and thank her lucky stars that a bureaucracy lingered over her head?

As she pummeled the heavy bag, she pictured hitting Clint Barton, the one who had talked her into joining in the first place. While it had seemed like a good idea at the time, in reality, she hated every single second of her captivity.

After the tests, she'd endured eight weeks, and counting, of being in a bizarre holding pattern with SHIELD Director Nick Fury. She met with him daily and, each time, the meeting went exactly the same as the one before.

She could have them without him at this point, as he gave the same tonal inflection every time he said: "We're still waiting on your test results to be thoroughly processed."

The very nebulous "we" had never been explained to her liking. At least, when she had been in control of her own destiny, she knew who was footing the bills and sending her after targets.

While she continued to wait, she wasn't allowed off SHIELD property. This so-called opportunity had turned into a prison sentence. Sure, Fury attempted to dress it up, telling her she could come and go about the compound as she pleased, but the quiet whir of the security cameras following her every move became deafening. The walls, while seemingly huge upon her first glance at them all those weeks ago, seemed stifling.

As she landed punch after punch, kick after kick to the bag, she wondered if taking an arrow to the heart would've been so bad. Bleeding out on a Budapest sidewalk sounded better and better each day. The more time that passed, the more she realized she was a caged animal, kept and tortured at the pleasure of the all-mysterious "we."

* * *

He was ready to go home, have a beer, and put a bag of frozen peas on his shoulder. Mombasa had been messier than anyone had anticipated, and Clint Barton not only had accomplished the goal assigned to him, he then had to stay long past his initial extraction and clean up the insanity left in the wake of one dead criminal—one who had turned out to be more of a kingpin than a capo.

Just as he secured his bow and quiver in their respective cases, Phil Coulson spoke: "Good, you're still here."

Clint glanced up, through a yellowing black eye. "Not for long. Headed home."

Coulson smiled. "Unfortunately, you're needed at the gymnasium."

"Trust me, I've had enough sparring practice the past week. Street guys are a little more…" He searched for the right word before settling on: "_entertaining_ than any greenhorn Fury's torturing this late at night."

"It's Romanoff."

Clint stopped packing his gear and stood up straighter. "What about her?"

"You know now as much as I do. Director Fury would like you to report to the gym. Romanoff is there."

Clint haphazardly placed his backup sidearm in the top of his duffel, zipping it closed quickly before walking toward the massive gym complex.

There was an indoor pool, a weight room, and tennis courts, all empty. A few agents were in the middle of what he knew was a pickup game of basketball—he'd participated in a few of those himself after rough nights when he wasn't ready to go home and be still. Natasha wasn't there, however.

He was about to call it a night when he stuck his head into the last room in the complex, filled with mats and stationary targets. The rhythmic thud and rattling of chains greeted his ears, leading him to the corner, where fiery red hair moved with each hit.

From his distance, he could tell she was beyond frustrated. Considering he'd already _been_ a punching bag for days, he didn't want to be hers, too. He glanced at the nearest security camera and noted that the red indicator light blinked twice before going off. He smiled to himself and made a mental note to thank Coulson later, assuming that it was the unassuming senior agent who had provided them some privacy.

Mostly he was thankful because, even if the worst happened, he wouldn't see a file on the shared server the next morning titled: "Black Widow beats Hawkeye."

"What do you want, Robin Hood?" she asked, never once looking back at him.

He was impressed—of course, he had been since the moment he first saw her. "Came to see how you're adjusting."

The movement combo she performed on the weight bag was impressive and would, definitely, hurt a living person. "Not well."

He frowned as he cautiously approached her. "What's wrong?"

"I did not come here to be a prisoner. You said I could work, do things, use my skills—"

"Yeah…"

"You lied."

He stopped. "What are you talking about?"

She left the heavy bag and advanced on him, slowly and methodically, with venom in her eyes. "I did not agree to give myself up so that I could be locked up, unable to set foot off this compound."

He took a cautious step back. "You aren't working? Haven't been given an assignment?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Have I not been clear?"

"It's just that Fury should understand what an asset you'll be to this operation."

"Perhaps you have too much faith in people—that's not a good trait for an assassin."

He shrugged a shoulder. "If that were so, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. I'd have killed you."

"I knew you were there. The whole time."

He smiled—and it was crooked and adorable and it caught her completely off guard. "I let you know I was there."

She closed the distance between them, poking a finger into his chest. "You _think_ that."

The energy in the room shifted. Instead of feeling threatened, it felt… different. "Let's get out of here."

She blinked, catching up to his sudden shift in the conversation. "You forget: I _can't_."

"Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, killer of unknown masses, spy extraordinaire… can't escape from one little SHIELD base?" He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Maybe this is why Fury hasn't given you the green light yet." He doubted that was the case but, once he started down the path, Clint wanted to get her riled up. He wanted to see the passion he knew was within her. He could tell, easily, that she was up to the challenge. "I'll meet you at Greenley's—it's a bar not far from here—in an hour. Dinner and drinks, my treat. You'll feel better." He glanced at his watch. "Time starts… now."

"I have no weapons."

Looking at her incredulously, he reached for her hands and held them up. "But, don't kill anyone. That may be a one-way ticket out of here, but it won't be to Greenley's."

She broke free of his grasp and, using the momentum, soon had him in a choke hold. "I could walk out the front door like this."

He remained still, not struggling against her. "Believe it or not, some people do like me here. You do that, you'll get shot. No dinner, no drinks, no freedom," he said, though his voice was strained from the pressure she had against his neck. "Time's wasting…"

She sighed and released him.

"Your advantages? Whatever you can get in this room. But, the second I walk out the door, those cameras come back on."

She looked at the numerous cameras in the room. She kicked herself for not having noticed before, that they were off. "How did you…?"

He grinned. "And you call yourself observant?"

"It may be worth cracking your _beak_, bird."

Clint covered his nose with his hand. "Fifty-eight minutes, _brown recluse_."

Her green eyes scanned the room. While he wasn't sure what she was going to do with the items she collected, she soon had a small supply kit. "Greenley's?" she asked to confirm.

He nodded, checking the time again. "Fifty-four and a half min—" He stopped dead when she pulled the watch from his wrist. "Hey!"

"You'll get it back," she promised.

"I'd better. Good luck, Nat."

* * *

Stay tuned…


	2. Chapter 2

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously, on Avengers: Natasha hasn't been cleared for duty to SHIELD yet, and Clint challenges her to find a way to make that happen.

* * *

Clint was almost to the main gate when Coulson again appeared. With a sigh, he rolled down the driver's side window, resting his arm on the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Your time with Romanoff…?"

Of course he couldn't leave without a status briefing. "Eye-opening. Tell Fury to clear her already for active duty. She'll make him proud."

Coulson nodded slowly. "I'll see what I can do."

Clint nodded, managing a quick salute before pulling through the opening gates. He had just enough time to make it home, secure his gear, possibly ice his shoulder and get to Greenley's early, to see a winded escapee enter.

He smiled, imagining what she was doing—maybe crawling through air ducts or swimming through sewer pipes.

When he reached his apartment, he was tempted to stay. He hadn't seen his bed for weeks. Even though it wasn't made—and his closet and dresser looked as though a storm had blown through thanks to his whirlwind packing before his mission, with clothes, both dirty and clean alike, strewn about the room—there really was no place like home.

Instead of icing his shoulder, he opted for a shower with the heavenly steady temperature and level water pressure of his own plumbing. Dressing in blue jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt to hide the new scars on his arms, he was soon back in his car and heading for the bar.

Even for a Tuesday, it was packed. He carefully scouted around for Natasha, checking the rooftop and the ones nearby, along with shadowy alcoves. Once he decided the exterior was clear, he made his way inside. He went to check his watch, stupidly forgetting about her petty theft, before guessing he still had another ten or fifteen minutes before the deadline he'd imposed.

The pub itself was Irish-themed, with moss green walls covered with Guinness posters of bygone eras. While there was a small stage at the front right corner of the bar, there wasn't live music that night, only Flogging Molly pumping through the sound system. The tables in the center of the room were spotted with patrons—while there was a redhead, it wasn't the one he was waiting on. The counter along the left wall, too, seemed to have a bunch of regulars but not his…

He paused.

It wasn't a date. She wasn't a friend. She was no longer his mark.

Co-worker was the best title he could come up with for her.

When he heard the whooping and hollering from the back of the bar, near the pool tables, he saw that quite a crowd had gathered around one particular table.

"Damn, girl," slurred someone over the din of the crowd.

As Clint approached, he saw Natasha, dressed in blue jeans, a white tee shirt, and a leather jacket she must've snagged from somewhere, as he had left her at the gym in SHIELD-issued navy-colored shorts and a tank. She raked a pile of cash toward her, and he noted that his watch sat atop a mess of twenties and tens. "There you are, sweetheart."

Natasha looked up at him. "Darling…"

Clint made his way to her, snaking one arm around her waist and snagging his watch from her stash with his free hand. "Knew you had it in you," he whispered before kissing her hair.

It was for effect, he told himself. For their cover. For their impromptu mission.

She looked up at him. "Buy me that drink?"

He grinned. "Pretty sure, _shark_, you could buy your own. But, I did promise tonight was on me." He looked at the men surrounding them. "Excuse us."

The group, however, wasn't smiling. One shook his head before speaking. "Now, hold up… This bitch needs to give us the opportunity to win our money back." To prove his point, he blocked one of their potential exits.

Clint's laugh was polite. "You entered into a bet. You were going to take my watch. It's not my fault you were too blind to see she can shoot circles around you."

"Either the money stays," said another man, "or she does." He reached out, touching her soft tresses.

Natasha's expression flattened—to cold, hard _iron_.

Clint wasn't looking for a fight and still hoped to avoid one. "Careful, sweetheart, your _Russian_ is showing…"

"I'd be more than happy to show them more," she said through her clenched jaw. Being free, even if she'd only been at the bar for ten minutes, was much nicer than being back at SHIELD. The sore losers hadn't realized how much her appetite for freedom had been whetted just from playing one round of pool. She wasn't _about_ to be captive again, by anyone.

"Either take it like men that she beat you and let us pass… or you'll regret it," Clint vowed.

The group, six in all, stupidly laughed.

"And if I kill any of these?" Natasha asked under her breath.

"No, no," Clint said quickly. "We talked about this. No death, no killing, not today."

When they laughed harder—and the one again tried to reach out to touch her—she reacted, slamming him face-down onto the felt-covered slate.

"You were warned," Clint reminded before ducking a punch that came flying his direction.

Bar brawls were nothing new to the staff of Greenley's. What was new, however, was the speed in which the fight ended. No sooner had it started, it was over, with the six men all in pain and curled protectively around their injuries.

Natasha looked at her handiwork and nodded. "You were right. I feel much better."

While minimal damage was done to the bar itself, the policy was to remove _all_ fighters from the premises, so Natasha and Clint found themselves walking out while the others were dragged to the parking lot.

Clint guided her to his car, opening the passenger door for her. "I still owe you dinner."

"What's your suggestion?"

"There are plenty of other places we can get kicked out of around here," he told her with a grin.

* * *

Maria Hill poked through her locker a third time, after dumping out the contents of her backpack on the ground. Her clothes were gone. It wasn't that she minded her uniform, it was comfortable for a day's work, but she didn't like wearing it into public and she had to go to the store before she could go home.

Sometimes the domestic tasks seemed so incongruous to saving the world on a daily basis.

But, there were still chores that she had to do, like grocery shopping, loads of laundry, and the never-ending battle with dust bunnies.

Annoyed, she finally abandoned her search, stepping into the main corridor outside the women's locker room. Coulson, with his bag slung over his shoulder, was reaching for the car keys in his pocket. "Hey, Coulson?"

He turned and smiled genially. "Agent Hill."

"Do we…" She couldn't believe she was about to ask. "Do we have some kind of procedure, for reporting missing property?"

He could barely believe what he was hearing. "Come again?"

"Seems I'm missing some items from my locked locker…"

"Crime _on_ SHIELD properties doesn't exist," Coulson told her, shaking his head. "I don't think anyone has even thought about stealing from another agent…"

"Doesn't negate the fact that I had civilian clothes in my locker and they're all gone."

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"This morning when I reported in, but that's been twelve hours."

"You sure you didn't put them in the wrong locker?"

"My combination only opens the lock on my door," she said, mildly annoyed that he didn't believe her.

Coulson thought for a moment then pulled out his cell phone. Dialing a familiar number, he waited to be connected. "Coulson here. Do we have eyes on Romanoff?"

Hill tilted her head questioningly.

The answer given was one he didn't approve of. "Understood." He ended the call, looking at Hill. "Seems I may have an idea who took them. Not sure I can get them back for you this instant."

"The Black Widow?" Hill blinked. "I thought Fury forbade her from leaving."

"We locked up someone with eight legs… pretty sure that means they can walk wherever they like." Resignedly, he turned and walked _back _to his office.

* * *

Stay tuned…


	3. Chapter 3

Apologies for the huge delay. Life's been interesting over here. On with the show! ~K

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously, on Avengers: Clint and Natasha's evening _begins_ in a fight, and Maria Hill notices she has items missing and reports it to Coulson.

* * *

She settled into the booth across from him, watching as he easily interacted with the young waitress who clearly knew him. Though, if the woman noticed the bruises on his face, she didn't say anything. Natasha found that interesting. Once they'd ordered, the waitress bounded back toward the bar and the kitchen to get their meals going.

Clint was surprised to see that Natasha was looking at him—like she was studying him. "What?"

"Just… curious."

"About what?" he asked, leaning forward. He crossed his arms on the table between them.

She mimicked his move, pondering her words for a moment. "Why do you care what happens to me?"

He was caught off guard by the question and wasn't sure how to respond. His stunned silence spoke volumes for him for a moment.

"You ignored orders so that you could bring me in. You gave me the chance to get out from under Fury's thumb a mere hour and a half ago. All of this with barely having spoken to me."

He looked at the table between them for a moment. How could he adequately tell her that he understood where she was coming from, that he had been in her shoes, in a situation that he hated and had managed to free himself, thanks to the assistance of someone else who took a chance on _him?_ It seemed like entirely too heavy a conversation to have over drinks and dinner, particularly when, as she had pointed out, they barely knew each other. "Why does it matter?" he asked, making the mistake of looking at her.

Once she had his gaze, she held it. "Because, in my experience, kindness doesn't exist."

"Well, it does," he said lamely. "SHIELD is a team sport. You have to depend on people, extend those kindnesses to others, whether you like them or not, for the greater good."

"Greater good isn't something in my vocabulary either."

"Guess you're just learning all sorts, being stateside."

"Nobody else there treats me like you do."

"Maybe nobody's seen you the way I have."

Natasha felt _pinned_ suddenly, like some kind of cruel science experiment, under his intense scrutiny. She wanted to break the eye contact but couldn't. "Maybe you're just different," she said quietly.

He wasn't sure if that was a good distinction or a bad one. "Maybe," he agreed. "Maybe we both are."

* * *

Coulson sighed heavily as he approached the director's office, a file under his arm. His least favorite part of the job was the disciplinary actions. While, true, there had previously been no theft among agents, there had been other infractions—disobeying orders being one of the worst. Natasha had clearly done that by leaving the compound. And Clint, who had broken the rules to welcome her to SHIELD in the first place, had been her last point of contact.

He hated to, but he started to wonder just how much of Budapest had been accurately reported in the archer's official SHIELD records.

Heavy footsteps neared the door before Fury opened it just wide enough to see his guest. "Coulson."

"Sir, we have a situation."

"You realize, don't you, those are my least favorite words coming from you?"

"I understand, sir, but I'm not sure this could wait." He presented the file. "Natasha Romanoff has left the complex. I'm afraid she might've had help from Agent Barton."

Fury snapped the file from Coulson's hands, flipping through the accumulated information, from the camera malfunctions in the gymnasium, the missing clothing reported by Maria Hill, and proof that Clint had been the last agent to see Natasha. "This is something, isn't it?"

"Do you want me to issue a capture order?"

Fury was silent for a moment, his eye scanning the information. "No."

"I'll get right…" Coulson had been expecting a very different answer and had acted on it before his brain fully understood what the director had said. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"I want to see what they do." He closed the file, presenting it back to Coulson.

"Is that the best course of action, sir?"

"Let's see how badly she wants this opportunity," Fury said. "Let's see what Barton does to protect her, or if he does. I have a feeling you're right, they're together somewhere. If she is, then she's handled."

"And if not? If I'm wrong?"

Fury's smile was slow. "When have you been wrong, Coulson?"

The agent swallowed hard.

* * *

Dinner was good, but the drinks were better. When they closed down the restaurant at two in the morning, Natasha stood in the parking lot, looking up at the sky. She was glad she could see it without being ensconced in bulletproof glass, but she wasn't ready to go back. She didn't _want _to go back.

Clint had started to walk toward his car but stopped. "Nat?"

To her own surprise, she responded to the nickname. "Hm?"

"You heard 'em." He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb to the establishment they'd just vacated. "'You don't gotta go home, but you can't stay here.'"

"Where is home?" she asked, turning to look at him. "Russia isn't, not anymore, not for a long time. The SHIELD complex isn't."

"We'll find you an apartment, a place for you to call home. But, uh… nobody's open right now."

"So, where do I go?" she asked.

He nodded toward his car.

"I shouldn't trust you."

His eyebrows slid up his forehead. "Why not?"

"You were sent to kill me."

"Sent, yes. Succeeded? No. Tried? Not even a little."

"You… you are confusing, Clint Barton."

He crossed toward her. "And I'm also tired. I've been on assignment for two and a half weeks, fighting my ass off. I got home two hours before you stole my watch… I'm ready for some sleep, aren't you?"

"Which leads us back to my initial query…"

"Come home with me tonight, we'll walk into SHIELD tomorrow, vie for an assignment for you from Fury. He's not _completely_ unreasonable."

"He could revoke his option. He could send someone else to kill me."

"Three months is a long time to string somebody along."

She closed her eyes, rubbing at her forehead.

"I know this is weird. I know better than you realize," he told her. "It's a lot to get used to, the fact that people look out for you, that you don't have to shoulder it all by yourself. So, take a breath and take the plunge. Trust me."

A cold fear twisted in her stomach. It was something she was completely unused to. She knew how to handle any situation… except this one.

When she opened her green eyes, he could see the panic in them. "I know you could easily kill me in my sleep. I think I'm the one taking the bigger chance tonight, don't you?"

"You are either brave or foolish. Which is it?"

"Tell you what, over breakfast in the morning, you can tell me."

"And our sleeping arrangements at your home…?" She arched an eyebrow, standing defensively.

He held his hands up in surrender. "You get first dibs. In the bedroom, I've got a bed…" He drifted off. "Crap, that I need to make. I also have a couch in the living room. Which is separated from the bedroom by a door. One that locks. So, you can take one, I'll take the other. We'll see who's alive in the morning. Deal?" He held his hand out to her.

She looked at his open hand for a moment, at the calluses on his fingers. Reluctantly, against her better judgment, she took it. "Deal," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

* * *

Stay tuned…


	4. Chapter 4

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously, on Avengers: Natasha's night out ends peacefully after a bar fight threatened to end it prematurely. Coulson discovers she's missing, and Fury takes a laissez-faire approach to the Black Widow.

* * *

She lingered in the doorway after Clint opened his apartment to her. It was what definitely looked like a bachelor pad. A black leather sofa was the main focus of the living room, while the coffee table was covered with scattered papers, a book, and an empty beer bottle or two. A matching recliner sat adjacent to the couch, turned to face the massive flat screen, mounted on an otherwise blank wall.

"Forgive the mess," Clint said, entering in front of her and scooping up the miscellaneous debris from the coffee table. "I spend way more time at the office or in the field than I do here."

Slowly, she followed him inside, her green eyes taking it all in.

The open floor plan led into a small kitchen, with a bar separating the living room from the dining room. The two barstools were used more for storage than anything—one held a stack of newspapers, the other, unopened mail. The kitchen itself held a fridge, stove, microwave, and blender. The coffee pot looked the most used. The sink, surprisingly, was empty. The fridge itself was covered in postcards from various places—all the beautiful sights that he should've been paying attention to in other countries.

As she wandered closer, she noticed the one on top was from Budapest.

The dining room table was small, and clearly unused, though it had a nice view out over the city.

"Make yourself at home, just… one sec," he said, disappearing through the apartment's only interior door.

She was only able to catch a brief glimpse of a bed with a dark-colored comforter before the door closed again. Exhaling, she wondered what she'd gotten herself into, what _Clint_ had talked her into—more importantly, why was she even listening to him in the first place?

She sat at the dining room table. Doing this, joining a group, it was massively different than anything else she'd ever done. She'd done things in her life she'd never been proud of, and all she'd been able to do for the past two months was think about all her previous choices, what she might've done differently had she been given the chance, and why she'd even accepted the opportunity to join SHIELD in the first place.

Her thoughts always drifted back to her ledger, the one that was _dripping_ with red.

At first, the money seemed to settle her. That was when she'd been young and foolish, when she didn't know any better. She couldn't even be sure when her morals, her _soul_ entered the equation. She'd been trained, from such a young age, to do the tasks assigned without second thought, that it had been a shock to her system, when her life _changed_.

It had to have been a gradual shift, something that happened so slowly she was completely unaware of it for such a long time. She thoroughly vetted the contracts she accepted, trying to balance the need she had to use the only skill set she had with the darkness in the world. She could only banish so much. She wasn't exactly a beacon of light either.

* * *

Clint tossed all the clothes into the hamper in the bathroom. What didn't fit, he just shoved into the back of his closet, hoping it would be good enough for a night. Ripping the old sheets off the bed, he put on the clean if wrinkled set. She would just have to accept the fact that it wasn't the Ritz or anything.

When he stood back to look at his handiwork, the dresser drawers were at least closed, as well as the closet. The bed was still a lumpy mess, but it was a _clean_ one, hidden mostly under his dark blue comforter.

It was actually kind of strange, having company. It wasn't to say he didn't enjoy members of the opposite sex—because he did—it was just that his apartment was his sanctuary, messy as it was. He didn't allow just anyone into his place. As he stood there, thinking, he wasn't sure if _anyone _else had been into his place excepting maybe the cable guy, when he'd called to set up the service.

Scratching at the back of his neck, he wondered why he felt so nervous. It wasn't that he honestly thought she'd kill him. He felt she just needed a friend, an ally. While he talked a good game about relying on the team, he was a loner. Having her there, in that close proximity, was just strange.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he exited back into the main room of the apartment. When he didn't see her at first, he had one brief panicked thought that she just _left_. "Nat?"

She looked up from her spot at his table, recognizing the concern in his voice. "Barton…"

Spinning on his heel, he was surprised to see her there. "So, um… bed or couch?" he asked, shoving his hands down into his pockets.

Slowly, she stood. "I won't take your bed, not since you haven't slept there either in weeks."

He shrugged. "One more night won't kill me. That couch and I have logged some sleeping hours, too," he said, nodding toward it.

"Sounds like you've made the choice for me."

"Just want you to be comfortable."

"And you don't think I'll be comfortable on your couch?"

He smiled at her defiance. "I'm not saying you wouldn't be. But, as a guest, I'm just telling you that the bed's nicer."

"And the door locks. From the outside?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"From the inside. So, lock me out, don't, doesn't really matter. You want to know where the exits are? Fire escape is off the bedroom. Front door is pretty obvious. You've got options."

She sighed, walking toward his bedroom. "I'm going with reckless."

"What?"

"You," she said, stopping at the door to look at him. "You're reckless."

He smiled. "Could be."

She shook her head as she disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door.

Since he didn't hear the door lock, Clint couldn't help one last comment: "Good night, Nat."

"Sleep well, _bird_."

He chuckled to himself, crossing to his couch and flopping down. "Bird," he muttered. "It's a _hawk_…"

* * *

When Natasha woke up, she froze. She was looking at a ceiling she didn't recognize, beneath warm covers, on a thick, comfortable mattress instead of the utilitarian cot at the SHIELD headquarters. More than that, she could smell _coffee_.

Sitting up slowly, the night before came rushing back to her: escaping from her captivity, battling drunkards, and then coming home with Clint.

She ran her fingers through her hair before getting out of bed. She'd changed into something to sleep in—some old, worn shirt of his she'd found shoved into a drawer—leaving the pilfered clothes to air out overnight. Quietly, she crossed to the door, opening it only a fraction to see into the kitchen.

Clint was at the stove, pouring a scrambled egg mixture into a frying pan. He was still in what he'd worn the night before, his short hair sticking up at odd angles. Abandoning the eggs for a minute, he placed two slices of bread into a toaster she hadn't noticed the night before. In fact, there were lots of things new—paper grocery bags still sat on the countertop.

"You up, spider?"

She tried to vanish back into his bedroom, but he turned around in time to see her, standing there in the three-inch opening. "Morning."

"How'd you sleep?"

"Quite well, thank you."

He nodded, returning his attention to cooking. "Well, get dressed. Breakfast'll be ready in a minute."

She blinked, still looking at him blankly for a fraction of a second more before closing the door. Maybe he wasn't reckless. Maybe he was just… _crazy_.

She'd dealt with more than her fair share of the insane. So many in their line of work _were_, that it only made sense that even those at SHIELD could be suffering from some sort of psychosis. While she'd never been properly trained, she liked to think that she could determine what people wanted, what they needed, and how they reacted to certain stimuli. It made her job _easier_ if she could operate six to ten steps ahead.

Clint seemed an enigma to her, however. Of all the things she expected when she finally fell asleep that night, waking up to _breakfast_ wasn't one of them.

Getting dressed, she emerged. She had only taken a few steps from his bedroom when he offered her a deep, steaming mug of coffee—_real_ coffee, not the slop they served in the break room at the SHIELD complex.

"I hope you like eggs," he said. "Guess I should've asked. I took a chance."

She wrapped her cold fingers around the cup. "Seems you do that a lot."

He shrugged. "Seems like the thing to do most days."

"You are a strange person, Barton."

"I think I'll take 'strange' to 'reckless.'"

* * *

Stay tuned…


	5. Chapter 5

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously, on Avengers: Natasha goes home with Clint and finds he is… surprising.

* * *

While Natasha showered, Clint picked up some clothes for her thanks to her winnings—things that fit a little better than the pilfered clothes she'd picked up at the SHIELD base. They were also dressier—a suit and heels. She decided making a _nice_ impression on Director Fury might not be a bad idea, considering she was really hoping she wouldn't _die_ when she returned to the complex.

Though Clint had frequently reassured her that they wouldn't, Clint had told her other things that she wasn't sure she believed—like SHIELD was a safer alternative to her solo operations.

She wanted to believe him. She was just certain that _hope_ was something for children, too.

Clint changed into a suit as well. It wasn't his favorite thing to wear ever, but he would deal. Considering he'd been the impetus for her leaving the base, and considering he'd already broken rank once to bring her into the fold in the first place, he had a feeling Fury's words would be just as severe for him as they were for her.

And if they looked like real, professional _assassins_, then maybe it would be a good thing.

He sat on the couch in his black suit, with a white shirt and no tie, waiting on her to be ready. The water to the shower had long since turned off, and he wondered exactly how long it took someone to get ready, particularly when it wasn't as though she had an endless supply of options for what she was going to wear.

And he'd drawn the line at buying her makeup, even with her money. He didn't know the difference between bronzer and foundation and didn't _want_ to learn, either.

When she emerged _finally_, he got to his feet. "About…" He drifted off when he saw her. Even without makeup, she looked stunning.

"What?"

He blinked. "Nothing."

"About _nothing_?" she asked, her eyes narrowing.

"No, just…" He shook his head. "Never mind; it doesn't matter. Are you ready to go?"

"What's wrong with you, Barton?"

"I'm _strange_, remember?" he asked, grabbing his own gear, still packed from the night before—he just didn't like leavingit at work for any reason.

She looked up at him. He might've been strange, and curious, but he did _clean up_ nicely. "I remember."

He grinned, sliding his sunglasses on, effectively covering what was left of the yellowing bruise under his eye. "C'mon, Nat. Let's face the firing squad."

She started to take a step to follow him but didn't. "That's not exactly encouraging, Barton."

"It won't be that bad. I promise."

Very reluctantly, she trusted him, following him.

* * *

The guards on duty were surprised to see the person in Clint's front passenger seat. In fact, they held his car at theclosed gate for quite a while, calling up to the director's office for clearance to let them in.

Even if Clint had wanted to run, he would've had to either back over or drive over uniformed guards, good SHIELD agents, and he wasn't about to do that.

While they could only hear snippets of one side of the conversation, the confusion was evident in the guard's voice as he spoke over the phone to the main office. Dazedly, he emerged from the gatehouse. "Let 'em through."

"Sarge?" asked a young armed guard, standing ready with his rifle.

The sergeant leaned into Clint's window. "Director Fury would like to see you both, in the Briefing Room on the second floor."

Clint nodded slowly, glancing at Natasha as he was cleared to drive through, and the gate lifted.

"Is that where our firing squad waits?" she asked, her arms crossed over her chest.

"No, the brig is off-base. We'd have been immediately escorted there, I'm sure," Clint said, driving on toward the parking structure and his usual spot.

Natasha reached behind him, pulling a smaller bag from his backseat.

"What's that?"

"Something I need to return. I'll meet you up there?"

He looked at her. "That depends… I know I'll be there. Will you?"

"You always seem to have faith in me. You tell me," she said, looking at him, her green eyes open, awaiting his honest answer.

"Don't be long," he told her quietly.

* * *

When Maria Hill arrived at the SHIELD office, she almost didn't stop by her locker. She didn't want to see the scene of the crime she'd stumbled across the night before. In fact, if she saw Natasha again, it might be too soon.

Considering the Russian had escaped and stolen her belongings, she had a feeling that the Black Widow was in the wind. To her, it would be no great loss.

Deciding, however, not to let some assassin—and enemy of SHIELD until Clint Barton made a convincing argument—get to her, she strode purposefully into the locker room. She focused on spinning the combination to her lock. She'd open the door, change her clothes, and go about her business. And if they ever caught Natasha again, and if she was ever brought to justice for the crimes she had committed across the globe, then she hoped, on some level, even her theft came up in the list of charges.

Petty, probably, compared to the blood on the petite redhead's hands, but still, the thought alone made her feel better.

To her unending shock, however, when she opened the door, a bag sat inside her locker, with an envelope. Only one word was written on it: "Sorry." Inside the envelope was a twenty dollar bill. Inside the bag beneath the envelope were her clothes. The money, she guessed, was for the laundry.

Maria looked up and around, as though Natasha might still be there somewhere.

The locker room was empty.

* * *

Fury was pacing lightly at the front of the briefing room, his hands clasped behind his back, his eye focused on the ground in front of him. He didn't bother to look up when he heard _one_ person enter. Given the gait and weight behind the steps, he knew it had to be Clint.

"Director?"

"Where's your friend?"

Clint slowly crossed toward the front of the room, taking a seat on the second row. "She's on her way, had to stop, powder her nose maybe."

"That so?" Fury asked, stopping to look up at him.

"Y'know, when I brought her in, I thought you were serious about putting her skills to work for us."

"You reversed a decision, made by those higher up the food chain than we are. It took some doing to see if they might _undo_ that decision."

"And will they?" Clint asked.

Fury looked up when another nearly silent set of feet entered. "Ahh, Ms. Romanoff."

"Director," she said cordially if coolly. She had heard enough of their conversation from the corridor to know they were discussing her. Slowly, she crossed toward Clint, sitting in the very first row and a seat down from him.

Clint leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of the chair in front of him.

"Agent Barton, I'm pleased to introduce your new partner."

"Partner?" Clint echoed.

"Agent Romanoff… meet yours," Fury said, nodding toward Clint.

Clint and Natasha turned to look at each other.

Clint grinned, as if to say he told her so.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, as if to tell him it was only a lucky guess.

Fury realized they already had an unspoken language, the sign of a good partnership. "Hope you're ready. Fun's over, Agent Romanoff. Work begins now." Selecting two dossiers from the podium, he tossed one to each agent.

* * *

End.


End file.
